and i'll count the ways i love you
by MsLaLaLand
Summary: Where Harry has anorexia and Niall has bulimia and they meet in an eating disorder clinic and Niall reminds Harry how beautiful he is. [One Direction]


**AN: I know for a fact that there's not a lot of One Direction fanfiction on this site. Most of us are on Archive of Our Own, which is where I originally posted this story. It's kinda heart-breaky-ish and sad, but I'm seriously proud I managed to pull this together. But, in all honesty, I want to qualify as a Beta Reader. So here's this. And...hopefully I can sort this somewhere? I don't think One Direction is actually registered as a fandom on here. We'll see. **

**WARNING: **Eating disorders and depression/mental disorders are mentioned. Read cautiously.

* * *

This is stupid. This is really stupid. That's all Harry can think about this. It's just all incredibly stupid. There's no point. It won't help anything. He's still going to be the exact same person when he walks out of here. He doesn't want to be here in the slightest, doesn't want to listen to everyone else's problems that make his own seem like nothing at all. He doesn't want to have to be forced to talk and have people look at him thinking _that's all he's been through? What a loser. Freak. Creep. Ugly. Fat._

This is stupid.

The only thing he's getting out of this is a glimpse at other people with the same issues. At least he knows he's not completely alone and all the people surrounding him have also had a big fat label stamped over their foreheads that let everyone in the whole world know how screwed up they are, with their mental disorders and weird habits and destructive obsessions. So he's not completely alone, no, he's not alone because there are people everywhere. People just like him, except maybe they succeeded in their goals because they're all _really skinny_ and it makes him feel _really fat_ and he knows this isn't going to work and if anything this is just making it worse. But no, he's not alone. He just feels really, really lonely.

And there's this lady, Rebecca, and she's very nice and comforting and everything, but Harry doesn't let his guard down and doesn't forget that she's the one that pretty much _made_ him show up here today because she insisted it would help him _so much and we just want you to get better, sweetie. _And he thinks to himself why everyone always wants him to change, because he thought he was doing what they all wanted by changing but then that wasn't good enough either, so _what do they want from him?_

So Rebecca is at the head of this deformed circle—which looks more like a sagging oval—and she's the only one who looks pretty positive while the rest of the chairs are filled with miserable faces and worn-out bodies just like Harry's. And when she asks who'd like to share their feelings and no one answers or moves or does anything, she zeroes in on him and says, "Harry, why don't you introduce yourself and say something?"

He lets out a burst of air between his lips from where he's slouched in his chair—this very uncomfortable metal chair—and refuses to meet anyone's eyes as he speaks, keeping his gaze down at his lap and wondering how it's possible that his thighs look so huge. "I'm Harry Styles. I'm nineteen."

When that's all he offers out, Rebecca prompts him further, telling him to say what kinds of disorders he has and for how long and what it's been like for him and really, how does she _think_ it's been for him? Obviously him and all the other people in this room have been through a hell of an awful time and _what's the point of this_? They're just going to wallow in each other's misery, is what, and _sure_, that's going to make them all feel _a whole lot better._

But then Rebecca is giving him such a hopeful look and she really is a kind person and he feels really guilty about making her upset, so he mumbles out some answer about how he's had anorexia for three years and OCD for double that. And he adds on, "I don't know, it's been hard, but. Like, it's not unexpected, really. 'Cause I've had this thing for everything being _perfect_ for so long that I just wanted to make myself…perfect." And that's when he decides he's said too much and shuts his mouth.

Rebecca looks very pleased and thanks him for sharing and then moves onto a girl across the circle with really long hair that she uses to hide behind. And as Harry looks around, he realizes that there are pretty much _only_ girls here. Not that he expected anything different, because growing up they always said that eating disorders were more precedent in girls and only a small percentage of boys were affected. So there are lots of girls. Well, there is this one boy slumped in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest and he's blonde and is really thin—thinner than Harry, which, yeah, it bothers him—and has his mouth set in a straight line, looking like he doesn't want to be here almost as much as Harry. But other than him, Harry's the only boy. It makes him feel uncomfortable and exotic, and not in the good way. He's a _boy_, and people _have_ and _will_ look at him like an animal in a cage at a zoo, a display for everyone to poke at. It makes him feel sick.

Harry tunes back into the conversation when he notices Rebecca looking at the blonde and asking him to speak. The boy looks awkward and upset and Harry actually thinks he's going to refuse altogether and stay silent, but then he's opening his mouth.

"I'm Niall. Horan. I'm nineteen. I've had bulimia for two years. And I'm claustrophobic." His eyes shift from the floor to Rebecca, as if hoping that what he's said is enough to please her. She seems content with the answer yet still insists he continue. He sighs deeply. "If you don't know, vomiting hurts like hell. Wouldn't recommend it. Mia's a bitch."

Harry actually chokes out a laugh and slaps his hand over his mouth when all eyes turn on him. It's not like the way the kid says it is humorous, in fact it's in monotone and seems really morbid, but it's amusing somehow. Maybe it's just that he seems so unassertive yet still has the effort to be sarcastic about it all, which is what Harry feels too. And his accent is foreign to Harry, but definitely some kind of European origin (Scottish, maybe?).

"Thank you for sharing, Niall," Rebecca says, eyeing him, but moving on shortly afterwards.

Harry nearly leaps from his seat when the big hand on the clock hanging above the doorway sweeps over the twelve, signaling the end of this ridiculous session and freeing him. Well, not completely. This was just the first of many sessions. And his sudden rush of happiness fades away when he realizes it's twelve o'clock which means it's the first dinner which means eating in front of people which means basically his whole world is crumbling. He got here after lunchtime, thank the lord, but he knows all the rules and policies and there is definitely no way he can avoid dinner. The whole point of this place is to try to help them recover and everything and _yes_, he knows this, but it's still going to be hard and every bite is going to be a struggle. This much he knows.

They're divided into groups; those who can manage to eat by themselves without being watched over, and then there's his group. He's guessing from the information his mum gave the workers that they think he can't be trusted eating alone. And they're not wrong.

The table can fit ten people, five per bench. He's sitting between two girls, one with purple hair and one with white-blonde hair, and then there's the blonde boy, Niall, from his group therapy session earlier sitting across from him and picking at his nail beds. And there's a huge plate of chicken breast in gravy, peas, and two sourdough bread rolls in front of him, along with a big glass of lemonade and as if that isn't enough already, there's a fancy glass with a vanilla ice cream sundae. Not two minutes before, when he asked the woman who set the food down in front of him how many calories were in the meal, she just smiled sadly at him and replied, "Sorry love, but I'm not allowed to tell you." He's never felt sicker in his life.

"So, you're new, huh?" the purple-haired girl is saying to Harry.

He looks down at the tablecloth, memorizing the red-and-white plaid pattern and ignoring the food. He nods. He feels the girl looking at him.

"It's not as bad as you think," she says, attempting to reassure him or something, but he still feels like this dinner is going to be really awful. "My first dinner was rough, but it's okay once you get into the routine." She's picking slowly at the peas, taking in two or three at a time.

Harry just nods again and stays silent. It's kind of rude of him, he'll admit, but he's never been one for much social interaction and he expected most of the other patients to be like that as well.

"What's your name?"

There's no avoiding that question. He mumbles, "Harry."

"I'm Jade. You're new too, right?"

Harry looks up, confused as to whether or not she's still talking to him, and sees that she's now looking at the blonde across the table, who's carefully cutting his chicken.

"Yeah," he responds simply. "Kind of. I guess. I was here for lunch." He grimaces slightly as if remembering a bad childhood memory.

"So, Ana, Mia, or both? Or EDNOS?" Jade's asking both of them, her eyes shifting between the two boys.

"Mostly Mia. They don't think I've got all the symptoms of Ana." Niall shrugs and Harry realizes that he's Irish. _Okay, not Scottish, they're completely different._

"Ana," Harry says quietly, still not completely comfortable with being so open about his disorder to two strangers. But then again, everyone here in this clinic has eating disorders so it's not like people can call him a freak for having one.

"I've got EDNOS," Jade says scornfully. "Barely anyone's heard of it."

"I have," Harry offers. "I…I've been told it's, like, one of the most deadly of eating disorders."

She shrugs. "Could be, but I'm not dead yet. Unfortunately." The last part is so quiet Harry barely hears. But he catches it and can't resist asking tentatively, "Do you wish you were dead?"

Jade's eyes meet his for the first time, and they're pretty and brown and surrounded by thick lashes that sweep when she blinks. "I don't know. Sometimes. They've got me on some med that's supposed to help with those thoughts. But, like. I guess. I'm suicidal, so."

Harry blinks in surprise at her blatant-ness and will to talk about such an undoubtedly difficult topic over a meal. He takes a glance at the clock. All patients are only allowed a thirty-minute time frame to finish each meal. And he's only got twenty-three minutes left. He does everything slowly, how he always has. He picks up the fork—which feels too dense and heavy—and scoops up several peas with care, but doesn't eat it. The utensil with the vegetables just hovers in front of his face, and he looks at the food and wonders how he'll make it through these months if he can't even eat a forkful of peas.

"You can do it," he hears Jade encourage from beside him.

He gulps down the lump forming in his throat. "I don't think I can." He just wants to curl up in his room at home and snuggle under the blankets in his bed and cry forever and it's completely ridiculous because he's a nineteen-year-old man that's homesick, and just. It's stupid.

"We believe in you." This time it's Niall talking to him, and Harry comes to a realization that this is the first thing the boy has said so him. And if there are two people here that have faith in him, well, that's more than when he was back home, so he pushes the fork into his mouth and chews on the peas twenty-two times (an OCD habit) until they're just liquid and then swallows.

Jade smiles like a proud mum. "Think you can do another?"

And he does. Without too much struggle, he gets through half the chicken and all the peas and one bread roll and even a quarter of the lemonade even though liquid calories are one of his biggest fears ever. But after he swallows a bite of chicken, the quilt starts to settle on him, along with _all the food he just ate_ that's going to digest in his stomach and make him fatter than he already is.

Jade must notice the ghostly look on his face because she says, "What's wrong? Harry? You were doing so well. Only a little bit more."

"I can't," he groans in despair. "Too much food…I can't."

"Yes, you can," she insists, and then adds quieter, "They did tell you what happens if you don't finish a meal, didn't they?"

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and nods because they did tell him specifically what they'd do if he failed to eat the required amount. It was either eat manually or have a needle stuck into his arm to force-feed him. It's debatable, honestly, because even though he hates needles with a passion, he also hates eating with a passion, so like, it's practically even.

"Come on mate," Niall is saying to him with a hint of a smile. "If I did it, you can. And I seriously mean it. I'm surprised I didn't, like, pass out, 'cause that happens a lot."

Harry returns a smile and he mostly means it. So maybe he can do it. Yeah, he can.

"Eight minutes left," Jade says softly to comfort him instead of worry him. "You've got this."

While the two of them whisper encouragements to him, Harry gets through the rest of the meal in the nick of time, including that sundae that he's sure is going to have him crying about later in the early hours of the morning, but he admits that it tastes good and it feels okay to treat himself because that hasn't happened in a _very_ long time.

And he makes sure that Jade and Niall know how thankful he is that they helped him through the first meal. He has a feeling they're going to end up pretty good friends.

* * *

It turns out that Harry shares a room with Niall. And Harry's pretty happy about that, because it's much better than rooming with someone he's never talked to. At least he knows Niall's nice and he's pretty funny, so Harry's content. And Harry's very impressed that Niall hasn't purged once in a week, despite having bulimia, and thinks that he must be either really strong or is embracing this whole recovery thing. Meals still don't go by that easy, but Jade is always right next to him and Niall's always right in front of him and he's never been good with people or had friends but it really isn't all that bad.

* * *

It's the second week when Harry finds himself in a situation he's never been in before in his life. He's just come from a personal therapy session and it's probably about ten at night. He figures Niall will be asleep when he gets back, because he's usually tired and is in bed early. He opens the door as quietly as possible and switches on his bedside table lamp. But Niall's not in bed, or anywhere in sight. Harry frowns slightly and thinks maybe he's gone to talk to a worker or someone else, but then he sees all these wrappers on the sheets of Niall's bed. He gets closer to inspect and sees the silver packaging of Hershey chocolate, Twix, Snickers, M&Ms, Kit Kat, and more. He frowns deeper.

A sound of gagging from behind the bathroom door confirms Harry's suspicious and then he's bursting through the door to find Niall kneeling on the bathroom floor with his arms hugging the toilet, throwing up the contents of his stomach into the ceramic bowl. Harry hurries to his side and rubs small, soothing circles in the small of his while he finishes vomiting. He then reaches up to flush away what Niall has brought up and turns back to the boy, who is collapsed against the toilet but still holding it tightly. He's crying so hard he's hiccupping and Harry honestly doesn't know what he should do. He's never been good with emotions and is downright awful at comforting people, but if he is going to try it out now would be a good time. He wraps one arm around Niall's shoulder and pulls him in gently, using the other to tear off some toilet paper from the roll and hand it to him. Niall takes it with shaky hands and wipes off his mouth before letting it fall into the toilet.

"What happened?" Harry asks quietly.

Niall seems like he wants to say something, but his hiccups prevent him from getting any full sentences out. Harry catches little bits of what he's saying: "…they had candy in the—took some and came back—ate so much and felt so sick—threw it all up and—would've been _two fucking weeks_—such a failure…"

Harry understands what he's trying to say, more or less. "I'm so sorry. You're not a failure, Niall. I'm so sorry. I should've been there for you."

Niall just shakes his head bitterly. "Not your fault—couldn't have stopped me."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Harry asks.

Niall says something about being tired and having a cuddle, so Harry half-carries him to his own bed. It's small and barely big enough for the both of them to fit together, but they make it work and Niall's tucked close into Harry's chest. It's actually quite nice, he thinks, and that's saying something because personal space has always been an issue for him, but he finds himself smiling and enjoying the warmth and company the small boy provides. And before he knows it, Niall's snoring softly and Harry thinks he's getting a lot better at this being friends thing.

* * *

The next day, Harry doesn't mention anything about the incident. But Niall does thank him throughout the entire day.

* * *

Harry and Niall become a lot closer than he first thought they'd be. It's not out of the ordinary when Niall wants to snuggle and they wake up tangled together, or when he rests his legs against Harry's at meal times, or when he asks Harry to sing to him when he's upset. Everything comes so naturally with Niall, and Harry doesn't feel uncomfortable at all, like he would with anyone else. Niall doesn't find it weird when Harry always has to fold the bed comforters twice over or that he always brushes his teeth in exactly sixty-seven strokes, never more or less. Niall doesn't treat Harry like a freak. He feels normal around Niall. He isn't even this at ease with his family and he finds it nice that this one boy, this one sweet and adorable boy, can make him feel so good inside. And they're just the same amount of broken and scarred, but Niall makes Harry feel like he's all fixed up and doesn't have a problem in the world.

* * *

By the fourth week, Harry can tell he's gained weight. A lot. They don't have any mirrors in the clinic whatsoever, but he can tell. He can tell by the way his stomach folds over slightly when he sits down and how his ribs don't poke out as much when he runs his fingers under his shirt and how that space between his thighs that he loves so much is slowly but surely closing, and it frightens him to think that one day it'll probably be gone. _This is the worst part about this_, he thinks, _the gaining weight part and getting better part_. If it were up to him, he wouldn't have chosen to get 'better' at all because he still needed to lose more weight before his family sent him here. But apparently the doctors and nutritionists did not agree with this because _your BMI is 16.6 and that's dangerously low, so we'll need to keep you here for a while, okay honey?_ And no, it's not okay, but he's got Jade and Niall and three other girls he met—Perrie who has anorexia, Jesy who has bulimia, and Leigh-Anne who has both—so he doesn't feel so lonely anymore.

Today is the first weigh-in. It's early in the morning, before breakfast, and they go one at time while the others weight in anticipation in the hallway. Jade is ahead of Harry and Niall is behind him, and he feels really, really nervous. The last time he weighed himself was a month ago, a little while before he started at the clinic, and he weighed a hefty 129lbs. He knows he's gained, but he isn't sure whether or not he wants to find out just how much.

Jade slips out of the office looking a bit shaken up and like she's been crying. When Harry frowns and opens his mouth to ask what happened, she just shakes her head and whispers, "I'm fine." Then she's gone down the hallway. Harry and Niall exchange a concerned look, but then Harry's called into the room. It's small and more like a shoebox than a doctor's office, but it's just big enough to hold a bed and a scale and two chairs. There's a window stretching across the wall with the blinds drawn closed. The nurse smiles kindly at him and tells him to take a seat before asking him various questions like if he's been eating all his meals (yes) and if he's been doing secret exercises (no) and if he's purged (never before in his life). Then she hands him a thin white robe and asks him to remove his clothes, except undergarments, and put it on. He does so quickly, feeling a bit exposed in just his boxers, but feels more at ease when the gown is on. The nurse motions to the scale and Harry breathes in nervously before taking shaky steps towards the device and stepping on, slowly and one foot at a time. He closes his eyes because he doesn't even want to see the number and then the nurse is asking him to step off. She writes down the calculations on a paper on her clipboard.

"Would you like to know how much you weigh?" she asks him gently.

He swallows hard and knows he should say no because that might lead him to restrict, but then he finds himself nodding. The nurse tilts the clipboard towards him and his eyes search for his name. He finds it and sees a number written next to _Harry Styles_.

134lbs.

His breath gets caught in his throat and his eyes begin to water. The nurse asks him if he's alright and if he needs anything, but he says no and just quickly changed back into his clothes, which suddenly all feel too small. He leaves the room and ignores Niall's, "Hey, how'd it go?" He makes his way to the room and paces around the room in an attempt to burn off some calories because if he does anything more intense he knows the workers will hear because they're _always_ around. 134lbs. 134lbs as in five whole pounds more than what he weighed before. He feels like crying but knows it won't help anything. He doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to keep getting fatter, doesn't want to go through this anymore and _why is everything so hard?_

It seems like ages later and Harry's on the floor on his side, curled up in a ball, when the door to the room creaks open, someone shuffles in, and the door shuts. When someone puts his hand on his shoulder, Harry knows its Niall because of his soft, gentle touch. Niall scoots closer and pulls Harry upright and into his arms. And Harry lets him even though usually he'd tell anyone else to fuck off and leave him alone. But it's Niall so he just collapses against him and tries not to cry too hard. After a while of just sobbing silently into his hold, Niall says quietly, "Will you tell me what happened?"

Harry draws in a shaky breath and nods against Niall's chest. "I-it was so bad," he whimpers. "The number, it was just s-so high, so much more than before, and I hate all of this and that they're supposedly trying to m-make me better. I don't feel better and I just hate myself and I w-want it all to go away."

Niall runs his hands through Harry's mess of hair and says, "What's the number?"

"A hundred thirty-four," he sobs. "C-can you believe that?" His voice cracks, but he continues. "And I've got even more to go, they told me I can't go home until I'm at least a fucking _hundred fifty_! Isn't that awful? I'm s-so upset." His shoulders are shaking, his whole body is, and Niall just squeezes tighter.

"Shh, it's okay," he hums lightly in his ear. "Hey, if it makes you feel better, I'm a hundred thirty six. I've still got, like, over ten pounds to go. But we can do it. _You_ can do it. I know you can. I know it's hard, and your weight just seems like too much. But this is for your own good. I realized that, and I think it would really help if you did, too. They want to help you and make you better. I want to help you, too. I'm trying my best. This isn't easy, but it can be if you accept it."

Harry swipes his palms over his eyes. "I don't want to accept it. I'll never accept the idea of eating and gaining weight and I'll certainly never accept this hideous body I've been cursed in."

"You're not hideous," Niall says before Harry's even finished his sentence. "You're beautiful. You're _so beautiful_. You're perfect, and it makes me so upset that you can't see that."

Harry wipes away some more tears. "Don't think that. Please. Don't tell me that I'm perfect because I'm not, I'm a freak and I'm screwed in the head and I'm just a mess."

"But you are," Niall whispers. "You _are_ perfect and I won't stop saying it until you believe it."

Harry shakes his head. "I don't like hearing it. I don't like being lied to."

"I'm not lying. Would you like me to name everything that's perfect about you?"

"No. Don't. Please, Niall. Don't do it."

"I will. I'm going to do it. I'll list everything off that makes you perfect. And I'll count the ways I love you."

Harry's heart stops and he jerks his head up. "What did you just say?"

But Niall's already launched into the list. "I love your hair. It's such a beautiful color, you know." Harry feels Niall's hands twisting his locks around his finger. "It's really soft and shiny. I love your cheeks. They're always rosy and your cheekbones are gorgeous." Niall's fingers ghost down to his cheeks, where they stroke them for a few seconds before moving down to his chin. And he keeps going on about how he loves the point at Harry's chin and his sharp collarbones and his long, slender fingers and his large, soft palms and his smooth stomach and his hipbones and his kneecaps and his thin ankles and his small toes. And then when Harry finally thinks he's done, Niall pulls him up so Harry's face is tilted up and looking right at him and he's whispering, "But you know what I love most about you? I love your lips. They're so pink. And so pretty." Niall licks his own lips. "They look soft. And they seem warm."

Harry gulps and says, "So…"

"May I see for myself?" Niall asks, almost humorously.

Harry just barely nods, but it's enough for Niall, because in a matter of seconds he's ducking his head down and pressing his lips against Harry's. Kissing Niall is a lot different than kissing a girl, Harry thinks, but it's better. So much better. Niall tastes like mint from his gum and something like berries which shouldn't really work, but it does and Harry likes it a lot. And when Niall's lips are no longer on his, he feels a slight disappointment. He wants to feel Niall more, feel that he's right there with him and will never let him go.

"Please, tell me you believe me," Niall says breathlessly.

"I don't know," Harry breathes back. "Just…kiss me again. And maybe I will."

So Niall does.

* * *

The air is frigid and cold, and he bets the heater is broken or something, but the thick coat and scarf Harry's got on takes most of the chill away. It's been a whole six months since he left the clinic. His weight is restored and he's healthy, and he's actually quite happy. He's sitting at a table in a restaurant for the first time in over three and a half years. This is quite possibly the biggest challenge he has yet to accomplish, but he's going to order a full three-course meal and finish it all. He knows he will. And he won't be doing it alone.

The door sweeps open and Harry looks up, a smile breaking across his face as he sees the beautiful blonde boy in a sweater and worn jeans making his way over to the table. He pulls out the chair and sits down across from him, just like at the clinic.

"Hello."

Harry reaches over the table to grab Niall's hand and squeeze it. "Hi. Are you ready?"

Niall nods confidently and smiles back. "Absolutely. We can do it."

The waiter comes by and they order two coffees, two clam chowders, two pasta dishes, and two slices of chocolate cake. And while they eat, Harry—who hasn't counted his number of bites at all—says, "Do you remember what you said to me that day after the first weigh-in in the clinic? If I believed you?"

Niall pauses to think, and then nods. "Yeah. Why?"

Harry just smiles and tangles his legs with Niall's under the table. "I believe you."

And then Niall smiles back and they go on to talk about their time in the clinic and the memories and how they still keep up with Jade and the other girls and right now Harry thinks—no, he knows—his life is pretty much perfect.

And he and Niall finish every bite of food.

* * *

**AN: That's it. That's the end. Here's a cup of hot chocolate and a cookie for you. If you bothered to read the entire thing, would you pretty-please mind telling me if you enjoyed? Or even if you hated it, that's fine too. I'm going to be completely honest; this story was inspired from events from my life. I'm not going to go into details and tell you all my sob stories and all that crap, but this is very relevant to my life. That's all I'm gonna say. But, other than that, thanks for reading a don't forget that I love you. A lot. Okay. Bye.**


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